Cooked Goose

I heard an insightful lady once say that she believed the father has the unique role of naming the child. She didn’t mean it’s solely the father’s responsibility/privilege. As we all know, nowadays the father and mother together settle on a name they both like. No, she meant something that goes beyond settling on a name. When I heard her say it, there was this resonance. I remember thinking that the father more than any other calls the child into the world. He says, “Hey, you, this is who you are. What I believe you will become.” By so doing, he strengthens his son, his daughter to face a world of terrifying beauty.

Before my regretful name change, my father gave me a Korean name which means A Star that Shines Over Many. Naming is serious business in the Korean culture. There are certain procedures: patterns to follow, people on which the office of naming is bestowed. My father who was himself fatherless for the majority of his life took it upon himself to name us – me and my brother. He could’ve gone to some expert or followed some prescribed pattern. Instead, he wandered off tradition to give us a piece of his heart. Looking down at a helpless baby – one of millions, born in an obscure, humble part of the world to two ordinary people, he let his heart dream as big as he could and said, “My boy, you’re gonna be like a star that shines over many.”

I go by that name now. And carry with me his call. I want to live – dare to live in a way that honors my father’s inspired call on his son.

For a couple of years, I went by the name Harold. Whew. Glad I got that off my chest – that’s a load off. I’ve come clean. Opened the closet for all to see. Go ahead, Ye without sin ... Really, it’s not much of a secret anymore. For years, I tried to keep it under lock and key. The mention of American names in conversation would get my ears hot. In a panic, I’d attempt to hijack the conversation to fly it far, far away from the subject. In recent years though, I’ve grown lax. As it often does, the hiding grows more dreadful than the monster itself. Now, many of my friends know. My kids know. It’s a bit of an inside joke now. Haha … haaaaa. 

Oh yeah, American names. “What’s an American name?” You ask. Right. Unless you’re an immigrant, and a certain type at that, you wouldn’t know. In 1977 the world wasn’t quite so small. Globalization wasn’t a word. More xenophobic … maybe not. More centralized and narrow? Definitely. It wasn’t hip to be multicultural, to be a connoisseur of ethnic foods. It wasn’t cool to be Korean. In such a world, the American name was an attempt at quick assimilation. For a “bowl cut” kid, turned instant card carrying alien to his surroundings by hopping a 12 hr flight, the American name at the least took down the “sign” that blared, “I’m not from around here.”

Quick. Yes. But at what price? I wonder. What is more you then your name? An abrupt change like a violent face lift, no? A disowning of self. Maybe a name isn’t a mere name: Changing it, not so innocuous. Reading a bit too much into it? Maybe. If nothing else, the lesson might be: Something as important as naming shouldn’t be left to just anyone – definitely not to oneself. You do, and you get disasters like Metta World Peace, Whoopi Goldberg, … and, yeah, you get Harold.

Couple months ago, I met a guy who had those eyes – eyes that had seen a few things. We shared a meal, and he told me his story. After serving nineteen years of a fifteen to life sentence, he’d been out of prison for less than a year. Not an atypical story. At an early age, he got mixed up with a wrong crowd. Before he knew it, he was running with a gang, perpetrating petty crimes. The criminal activity escalated. By his late teens, he was locked up for robbery. His father visited him often. Told him he loved him, and that there was still a future for him. He wasn’t buying it.

Sometime that first year while doing time on robbery, he was pulled out of jail and charged with murder. “It was like a slap in the face. I was ‘asleep’, like everything was okay. And then ‘murder one’, it just woke me up. I did it; I knew I was guilty. I thought, ‘My life is over.'”

Again, his father was there. On one of his visits, he asked him, “Do you know what your name means?” He had an ethnic name, and being born in the States, he had never sought out its meaning. “Your name, it means ‘life’. And your middle name means ‘full’.” It broke his heart.

Later that day, back in his cell, his life changed. Couple days later, he was offered a plea. He took it. At sentencing, he was, in his words “…so ashamed, but given the courage…” to face his victim’s family, apologize, and ask for forgiveness. To his surprise, the father of the victim stood and asked the judge for leniency. “He is just a boy,” he heard this father say, “My boy cannot be brought back, but this one still has so much life left.”

“Your name, it means Life.”

What’s in a name? I’d say quite a bit. Like the hopes of a father. The man I met was a man determined to live up to his name.

Look, I’m not saying I get that first thing. I’ve already divulged that I’ve dragged my wife through my darkness. Then there’s the selfish, self-centeredness. Before we married, my wife noticed that I always managed to will my way at the local Blockbuster. “We’d always end up getting something you wanted to watch. I really wondered if I could deal with that kind of selfishness.” “But, but … my choices were better … I was only trying to help.” We still watch a lot of Sportscenter. Yeah, I do dominate that remote … like all the time. Okay, right. I am very opinionated – often bullish about it. It does genuinely surprise me when I am wrong, which ought to mean that I’m frequently surprised. I am not. And that, my friends points to a serious gap in self-awareness. Who I think I am looks about as much like who I really am as Denzel Washington looks like Martin Lawrence. Not the most affectionate guy in the world. Slow to the trigger with words of affection or praise. And a down right bad gift giver. One Christmas I gave her a set of steak knives, okay! There I said it. If the first thing in loving my kids is loving their mother, I’m still not breaking even at the first thing.

All I’m saying is I believe they’re connected: Your love for your kids and your love for their mother. It “sets the table.” It’s the source, the foundation. The kids get an orientation to relationship. And from the love between you and their mother radiates out the love for them. Think about it: How many couples who love one another, end up hating their kids? Can’t think of too many, right? Now think about this: How many men would accept another man raising their kids while they are still alive? Not many. But those very same men, who would otherwise consider the proposition unimaginable, routinely let this happen to get away from the woman they’ve grown to disdain. The belief that we can by-pass that first relationship without affecting the second is wrong.

What I’m saying is this: You want to love your kids? Love their mom. It’s not easy, I know. I certainly haven’t gotten it right. It’s not too late for me though. With help, I can do it. Big or small every little step counts. For those who seek it, there’s always hope. Even for someone as lost as me.

Remember that First Thing? I wrote a couple weeks back that if you want to love your kids, love their mother. If you live under the same roof, try this little experiment. Walk up to your wife, and hug her. Hold her awhile, smiling the whole time. Do it, and make sure your kids see you do it. Then make careful observations: See what your kids do, what they say.

Our intro to that barest of all essentials – our intro to relationship is Mom and Dad. Even before Mom and me or Dad and me, it was Mom and Dad. They were already there. Into their union, you were born. The most powerful force I’ve seen in this world is love. Less powerful, but far more pervasive is its adversary, fear. Where ever there is relationship, there is both love and fear. Ever present, but unable to co-exist. They rage against each other, no where with greater ferocity than in the relationship between man and wife. Makes sense: It’s the most primal of relationships – the very cradle of civilization.

Into this, this cradle a child is born. Your relationship is their first, and so it leaves an indelible mark. The boy, the girl is introduced to either a world where love conquers all or where fear is the irresistible force.

If your kids are anything like mine, they’ll smile. The sight of you locked in an embrace with their mom will make them instantly happy. For years, in our home, our kids would come running from all corners of our place yelling, “Group Hug!”

She’s wearing a hat. It’s one of those floppy, brimmed hats fishermen wear to keep the sun off their necks. She is holding her belly as expectant mothers often do during the third trimester. By the ninth month, the skin is drawn so impossibly taut; the constant touch is there to almost reassure herself. And in this photo, she is smiling big. I remember that moment so vividly. So clear that you’re told, “No, you’re confusing memory with seeing the photo over the years.” No, I remember it. I can hear the sounds. The beach. We talked near the showers where I rinsed off the sand and salt. The overcast was clearing; the warm late summer sun breaking through.

But maybe this I do see in the picture, or maybe it is in my memory and so I project it when I look at that photo. Past the big smile and the playful hat, way back in her eyes there’s some anxiety. It was the due date. She woke me that morning animated. There was some wetness. Did her water break? But it was more a few drops than a puddle. And it stopped. After some debate, we decided to go for a long walk at the beach. You know, get her going. Later that evening, the baby showing no sign of budging, she decided to call just to be sure. We were told to come in. The test came back as trace amniotic fluid. The amniotic sac can spring a pin hole sized leak. Who knew? In our case, the trickle that stopped was explained by the baby’s positioning pressing against and thus plugging the hole.

Because the sterile environment had been compromised all day, they put her and the baby on antibiotics. Our son was born meconium and with an elevated temperature. I do not want to be an alarmist. And having been one, I know that expectant, 1st time parents comprise as jumpy a group as there is. So calmly, I suggest: Near your due date, when in doubt, check it out.

It’s happening. He’s taller than his Mom now. And creeping on me. The voice is changing – deep and squeaky. He’s getting thicker and hairier. The kid eats like a horse. Anything and everything; anytime, anywhere. The other day, he went to the movies and killed a large box of popcorn. Got sick, passed out, woke up, and ate some more. As their appetite grows, I’d heard they stop talking. Wasn’t convinced. You know, it’s so tempting to believe your child is going to be the exception. Nope. “I don’t know.” “Dude, don’t you know anything?” “I don’t know.” But the speech loss is only around adults. It’s not so much a loss in the ability to speak; it’s an allergic reaction to you, the adult. Get him around some friends, and they’ll talk for hours and hours about boogers. I’d also heard you see less and less of ’em. Sure enough, the first chance he gets; he’s out. The whole thing scares the crap out of me.

It’s happening. She can wear her mother’s shoes. The last six months, she’s hit a growth spurt. Fingers, no more stubby, chubby childlike. They’re stretched, long like a woman’s. I have to be careful about going into her room. At school there’s drama with the girlfriends. This one thinks this about that one. And that one is best friends with the other, but doesn’t like this one, which means she can’t be with this one without getting that one pissy.  Geez. Pre-teen Soap. Yeah, and I’d heard this for years. “Man, you better get yourself a shotgun.” She is pretty. Sure enough, the prepubescent little dogs are sniffing around. They’re not much of a threat yet – vastly under gunned in both physical and emotional development. They look like excited Beagles around well groomed Collies. Comical now, but I know they’re coming. In a couple years, big, black Rotts. The whole thing scares the crap out of me.

No matter how scared, I can’t become a buddy dad. You know, the one who tries by being a buddy – the cool dad which is to say, permissive dad. “They’re gonna be teens; they’re gonna mess around some. Relax.” Hell no. If ever they needed a father, it is now. I can’t become that grumpy dad either. The one who scowls and shakes his head for five years. That’s not working. Can’t let the fear leverage me. I need to stand; stand here and figure this out. I suspect with knees knocking and bowels emptied all the way through.